


An Unexpected Predicament

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Incompetent Kidnappers, Kidnapping, M/M, Smut, Some Humor, Torture, bilbo makes up stuff, cameos by the rest of the company, everybody lives au, happy ending indeed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After sneaking out of the mountain to have a few hours to themselves, Thorin and Bilbo find themselves captured. Their captors insist they must know a magic spell - the one that obviously must have caused Thorin Oakenshield's success. It also emerges that while the captors know of Thorin Oakenshield, they do fail to recognize him. </p><p>Their ignorance, however, does not necessarily improve the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A strange predicament

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KimidollSan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimidollSan/gifts).



> Please beware this part of the fic features two somewhat explicit torture scenes. The explicit stuff will follow in the next chapter.

Dwalin will kill them, Thorin thinks as the door slams shut behind him. His ankle throbs as he limps across the room toward Bilbo who glares at him fiercely from underneath a sluggishly bleeding cut on his forehead. His coat is askew, the brooch fastening it lost in the scuffle.

The terrible, shameful scuffle Thorin doubts he will ever live down. There were only three men, three utterly unskilled men – but all it took was a dagger to Bilbo’s throat and Thorin dropped his sword before even thinking.

“Why, Thorin why?” Bilbo moans, slumping against the far wall and wiping the blood from his face, “Why did you have to throw away your sword?”

His ankle gives a nasty throb and Thorin settles down near the hobbit. A part of him is shaken – that part that could only think of complying when the tallest of their captors pressed a dirty blade against Bilbo’s throat when the hobbit’s face was already covered in bright red blood. But that was a foolish, frightened reflex. The men were no fighters, and neither were they out to kill. He could’ve easily taken them.

“We’ll just overwhelm them when they come again,” Thorin mutters, tugging at his own tattered cloak. The bare stone in the dim cellar is hard and cold – even the padded coat provides little protection.

“If we’re not frozen to icicles in this dungeon until then,” Bilbo huffs, his breath fogging in the cool air. Thorin glances around – the walls are bare but for one small window set far over their heads. Even if he could boost Bilbo up, not even the hobbit would fit through.

The door, it seems, will have to be their exit. It looks sturdy, thick wood strengthened with black iron. Likely predating the rebuilding of Dale, forged at a time when the city was prosper and these little out of the way places needed to protect their riches from enthusiastic burglars.

The only thing little out-of-the-way places do now is provide hiding places for petty criminals.

“I think they’ll notice us missing pretty soon,” Thorin sighs. Dwalin will wring his neck and Balin will help. And everybody else will likely get in on the action.

Too dangerous, Dwalin had always warned. Not befitting of a King, Dori had grumbled. Think of what might happen, Balin had said. Fili and Kili had applied their best pleading looks: Please don’t leave the mountain to us. With Dis remaining in the Ered Luin, the abrupt influx in duties for the princes whenever Thorin left had served as a fairly rough wake-up call.

Bilbo deflates. “About now,” he says and rubs at his growling stomach, “It’s dinnertime. I think Gloin wanted to meet you before? And Frar from the jewelers’ guild after?”

“They’ll kill us,” Thorin states glumly. Bilbo nods in miserable agreement.

Then again, the others may have been right. It may not have been the wisest decision for the King under the Mountain and his not-quite-official consort to sneak out incognito.

***

Their glum contemplations and the growling of Bilbo’s stomach are interrupted by the door opening. Thorin curses himself for sitting straight on the other side – any other position would have allowed him to tackle the thin, tall figure that strides him. The distance, however, allows bandits number two and three to follow – two with an arrow firmly aimed toward them.

Thorin stays where he is.

The leader of the bandit trio marches into middle of the room, where he straightens and spreads his arms like a speaker gesturing for attention. “Brothers, I told you this glorious day would come! Our triumph is at hand!”

Thorin feels vaguely uneasy at the announcement. Brother number two – slightly shorter, but far more stocky and powerful – does not react at all. Three nods along enthusiastically, his entire body – easily dwarfing the group’s leader – moving along.

“Fantastic,” Bilbo chirps in, “Really, I’m happy for you. But you know, you could’ve just sent us an invitation. It’s only considered polite.”

Number one only looks frazzled for a moment. The brother with the arrow turns to Bilbo and draws the string back a little further. Thorin tenses.

“But you’d never have come,” the leader states with a shrug. Thorin feels inclined to agree (and under other circumstances might have apologized. As King, he doesn’t have the time to attend every wedding or naming ceremony in Erebor and Dale).

“Why ever would that be,” Bilbo mumbles under his breath.

Brother number one decides to ignore Bilbo this time around. He’s not doing a very convincing job, though, Thorin thinks and despairs further. They’ve not merely gotten themselves caught, they’ve gotten themselves caught by amateurs.

“Anyway, we should get on with this,” Brother number one decrees, “Hildgar, get rid of the dwarf.”

“Aye,” the man with the bow agrees and steps forward to aim at Thorin, who protests simultaneously with Bilbo.

“Oi,” Thorin shouts, his heart in his throat all of a sudden, while Bilbo cries, “You can’t just kill him! He’s –”

“He’s not important,” Brother number one says, a cool glint in his eyes, “We don’t need some strange dwarf. He doesn’t know anything.”

He gives a small nod and this time Hildgar draws back and Thorin already sees the arrow slam into his chest, and won’t that be an ignominious end – but something else slams into him, and when he blinks Bilbo arranges himself on his lap, making himself as tall as possible.

“You’ll have to shoot me first,” he dares them.

Hildgar frowns. “Hilfrid,” he says, and his leaner brother frowns.

Hilfrid tilts his head contemplatively. “That won’t do,” he announces with a dramatic sigh, “Hilbert, get the hobbit out of the way.”

Hilbert – the silent giant – grunts and moves. Thorin feels Bilbo press closer to himself, and as Hilbert’s shadow falls over them, he has to keep himself from flinching. The man is a large mass of bulging muscle, each of his hands easily twice the size of Thorin’s’.

“No,” Bilbo protests and struggles, but against that strength he’s helpless. Thorin can only watch in growing fear as Hilbert simply plucks the hobbit from him, ignoring the protest and moves away. Thorin finds himself facing the wrong end of an arrow once more, and Hildgar’s expression has darkened considerably.

“Don’t shoot him!” Bilbo shouts, voice hitched, “Don’t! If you do I’ll never – I’ll never whatever you want me to!”

“So he means something to you,” Hilfrid gloats, looking delighted at his realization. Underneath the momentary fear Thorin feels annoyance raise its head again. Of course he means something to Bilbo. They’re as good as married, and it’s not as if the kingdom didn’t know, even if it isn’t properly official.

“That might be useful,” Hilfrid conjectures, “Hildgar, get coals. Hilbert, make sure our guest has a good view.”

Hilbert, holding Bilbo pressed against his chest like a ragdoll, turns to his brother in confusion. “What?”

Hilfrid sighs. “Chain him up.”

“Hey, this,” Bilbo begins to squirm immediately, “This won’t be necessary, I guarantee. Just let me –”

Against Hilbert’s giant hands, Bilbo stands no chance. They force his arms up over his head and fit them into very small manacles. The chain between is not very long – and Thorin watches in growing horror as it’s lifted and affixed to a nail half-way up the wall – leaving Bilbo’s feet scrabbling against the wall for purchase.

A choked, pained noise falls from Bilbo’s throat and Thorin launches himself forward, intent on tearing them down and freeing Bilbo.

But he’s forgotten about his ankle.

It gives under his weight with a small crunch. Fire races up his leg, it burns worse than any pain he’s known before, and when his vision clears he has curled up on the ground and Hilfrid holds a slender sword to his neck.

“Stay down, dwarf,” he orders, but Thorin can see that he’s not confident underneath the veneer. It’s doubly vexing to know he could easily take Hilfrid and Hilbert, if only he had a weapon. If only his ankle stopped throbbing like mad.

“Good,” Hilfrid crows, “Don’t move. I’ll slice your neck if you do.” The blade trembles slightly, but its edge is too dull to cut through the though skin on Thorin’s throat. “Hilbert, tie the dwarf up. Lest he gets himself killed.”

Thorin’s fingers twitch. He’d really like to wrap them around this beanstalk’s neck and wring it, Hilbert lumbers over, fishing for another chain in his pocket. This one is visibly older, covered in rust. Thorin allows himself to be maneuvered into a sitting position, wondering if he should just attack – but then the iron chain draws taught and pulls his arms behind his back.

Curse it. Amateurs, and yet they’ve got them at their mercy. The situation truly isn’t heading anywhere nice and when Thorin catches Bilbo’s eye, the hobbit looks unsettled. Dangling from the chains can’t be comfortable either.

Thorin casts a glance at those small hands, and they look pale. He needs to get Bilbo down. Soon. Before he suffers permanent damage.

“Very well, very well,” Hilfrid states with obvious relief, “Now, let’s get comfortable for our chat.”

“We won’t tell you anything,” Thorin grunts, and earns himself a kick against his ankle. Pain races up his leg, stars explode before his vision and when the buzz clears from his ears Bilbo is shouting at them to not hurt him, else they won’t get anything.

“Oh no, no,” Hilfrid laughs, “Though that is a quaint idea to explore. Yes, the folks in Erebor may be willing to pay some nice sum for you, I think.” His eyes light up with a new idea, while Thorin’s pain-numbed brain wonders what else they have been caught for. If they’ve not been taken for ransom, then what is this? If it’s an assassination attempt, they’re quite bad at it.

Bilbo obviously wonders the same. Green eyes glare at Hilfrid. “Whatever did you take us for then?”

Thorin would like to second the question.

Hilfrid draws a deep breath. Like an actor stepping into the limelight, he straightens his shoulders. “Good that you should ask,” he begins what appears like a practiced monologue, “Not long ago I overheard a rumor – that the company of the King under the Mountain had a secret. Travelers talked about it in hushed voices. I do not know where they came from or where they went, but they seemed certain of it.”

Thorin blinks in dumbfounded silence. The only secret they have is Bilbo’s and his relationship, and that’s not a particularly well-kept one.

Then again, their captors do not appear particularly bright so far either.

“Now, thinking about this I finally divined the truth: that secret the company protects is a type of magic,” Hilfrid triumphantly declares, taking the silence of his audience for rapt fascination. He basks in their attention. “How else would you explain their miraculous success? Have you heard the stories? Those fourteen faced trolls, orcs and goblins, and yet all of them survived unscathed? Then they confronted Smaug and lived? Even Azog was slain in battle – look at this, only magic could have given them this type of luck!”

It’s at the tip of Thorin’s tongue to protest energetically. But he doesn’t even know where to begin. Bilbo appears similarly bewildered.

Hilfrid turns on his heel and approaches Bilbo. “But I will learn their secret!” he declares, “And then their luck will be mine!”

He’s obviously used to some kind of reaction, and Hilbert at least grins and nods enthusiastically. Thorin thinks he might be gaping. Bilbo looks appalled.

“And how are we going to help you with that?” he inquires drily.

Hilfrid grins. “Bilbo Baggins!” he exclaims, “There are few hobbits in the area – you must be traveling to visit him. A dear friend or family member, and I am sure he made arrangements to make your journey as safe as possible.” Hilfrid leans closer. “You know the secret.”

Bilbo blinks. His lips move, but no sound emerges. Thorin finds himself similarly frozen. Hilfrid looks terribly smug and proud of himself. Some involved thinking, indeed, Thorin contemplates, but they ended up with the complete wrong conclusion. Those three have absolutely no clue just who they kidnapped.

“We don’t know,” Bilbo answers, voice wavering somewhere between utter disbelief and honesty.

Hilfrid chuckles. “Oh, you do. Else you’d not have managed to cross half of Arda with just one dwarf for company. No, Bilbo Baggins shared the secret so you could travel safety.”

This must be some horrible cosmic joke, Thorin thinks and watches Bilbo open and close his mouth in silent protest. Even he wants to shout “that’s Bilbo Baggins in front of you!” at that smug man, but he’s stuck in place with the same mesmerizing horror that comes from watching a cart overturn.

He can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“Else he’d never send just one dwarf,” Hilfrid continues, ignorant of the utter bewilderment his words have caused, “Especially since this one doesn’t look like a very skilled warrior.”

If Thorin hadn’t been frozen in place by the revelation of the sheer ignorance of their captors, he’d have thrown himself at Hilfrid, chains or not. He’s King under the Mountain. Bloody Thorin Oakenshield. One of the best warriors on Arda, even the elves have acknowledged his prowess – to hear that failure of a bandit dismiss him makes his blood boil in ways even Azog never achieved.

“I’ll wring your neck,” Thorin vows when Hilfrid looks at him. The man looks away very fast.

Bilbo clears his throat. “There is nothing we can tell you,” he informs Hilfrid in what Thorin has come to know as his diplomatic voice, “So you can release us right now.”

Hilfrid, regrettably, is not Thranduil and fails to understand the diplomatic tone, and shakes his head. “Certainly not. And I think we’ll find a way to convince you.” His smile makes Thorin’s skin crawl.

The sheer failure of their captors to grasp their identities does not improve their situation. They still are both tied up and stuck in a very bad situation that can easily get worse.

“We won’t tell you anything!” Thorin roars, his voice making Hilfrid take a step back. Bilbo looks to Thorin in question, a kernel of unease visible in his eyes.

There is no secret.

At that moment the door opens with a loud squeak. Obviously not well-cared for, then, Thorin registers in the back of his head. But his eyes are drawn to the third brother. Hildgar carries a flickering lantern and a sack of strange implements. The flames cast an eerie orange light through the room.

“Shall we begin then?” Hildgar inquires, setting the lantern to the ground.

Hilfrid nods. “Yes. Unless you’d like to share the secret right now?” He looks inquisitively at Bilbo. “There’s no need for any of you to get hurt.”

Bilbo wavers. “We don’t know anything.”

Hilfrid shrugs. “Stop lying,” he suggests, and turns to his brother, “Hildgar, I think we might start with the irons.”

Hildgar nods shortly and draws a long black bar from the sack. It’s not broad, but Thorin figures what they are about to immediately. Hildgar proceeds quietly; without any obvious hurry he opens the lantern and pushes one end of the bar into the flame. The other end he wraps in dripping cloth, before setting it to the ground and meandering over to Thorin.

“You’ll need to take off some clothes,” he observes and the cold look in his eyes gives Thorin the chills. While Hilfrid is the brain behind this mad operation, Hildgar is the one lacking sympathy or scruples.

“Start with the boots.”

Hilbert nods, and Thorin gets in one good kick before the giant catch his one leg and Hildgar kicks his injured ankle. The pain surges through him, hot and blinding, and when his vision clears again he finds himself on his stomach. Hildgar seated on his back while Hilbert pulls of the last of his socks.

“I don’t think that will be necessary!” Bilbo protests loudly, while Hildgar reaches over and pulls the iron bar from the fire. From the corner of his eye Thorin catches sight of the bright orange glow and shudders.

This is going to hurt.

“Really!” Bilbo cries, panicked, “Don’t hurt him!”

“Will you talk?” Hilfrid asks. Heat tickles the soft skin on the soles of Thorin’s feet.

“There is no secret!” Bilbo yells, and Hilfrid shakes his head.

Something touches the back of Thorin’s feet. It doesn’t feel like anything at first – a sensation that isn’t quite there – then he hears the hiss of burning skin, and the pain explodes. It’s hot, melting his skin and searing into his bone, the pain blinding and deafening and he forgets where he is, his name and the world around him.

When he comes to, the stench of charred flesh fills the air and cold sweat covers his shivering body. Hildgar has not budged from his back, and the iron bar is back in the flame. Heating up again.

“… easy on you,” Hilfrid tells Bilbo, “Really. All you have to do is stop lying and tell us. We’ll let you go, and won’t bother you again. You know, we don’t particularly care for the mountain. Sure, some gold would be nice, but once we have that magic, we can easily win all the gold in the world on our own.”

“I’m telling you there is no secret magic!” Bilbo protests, his voice higher now. “You can let us go right now, because there is nothing to tell!”

“He’s right!” Thorin adds, forcing his voice to come out as steady as possible, “There is no secret!”

For a split second Hilfrid looks uncertain. Then his features twist. “You lie!” he accuses, “Stop lying. Hildgar.”

This time the iron touches the back of his calves. The pain races from the top of his leg hairs all the way through his bones and up his spine until it fries his brain with fire and daggers and painpainpain-

“Stop it!” Bilbo pleads, “Stop it! Please!”

Thorin grinds his teeth, forcing himself not to scream. He’ll not upset Bilbo further, he’ll not pass out and leave him alone to deal with this madmen.

“It doesn’t even –” he coughs out, “Hurt.”

Bilbo’s pleading stops abruptly, even Hilfrid looks impressed. The corners of Thorin’s mouth twitch in spite of the sharp stench that rises to his nose. But the pain’s dulling, either from shock or from a burn that’s killed all his nerve endings.

“Not a bit,” he pushes on, “They have no idea what they’re doing.”

Hildgar shifts and presses the iron deeper into the wound. There’s a surge of hurt, but most of what Thorin feels is pressure. A deep burn then. These don’t always heal, and won’t it be an embarrassing tale to live down? Permanently injured by idiots?

“It’s gon’ dark,” Hilbert interrupts, pointing toward the iron Thorin can’t see. Hildgar makes some displeased noise and thrusts the iron back into the fire. Thorin sucks in a shaky breath. The next one will hurt – he can practically feel Hildgar radiating anger.

“You could end this,” Hilfrid offers Bilbo.

“Oh, don’t!” Thorin shouts, interrupting him, “Really, I’m enjoying this. Don’t make it end early!” Sweat beads on his forehead and a part of him wonders if he’s gone around the bend – taunting their captors is certainly not a wise idea. Maybe the shock is getting to him?

“Tho –” Bilbo begins, but cuts himself off in time.

“Just tell me the secret,” Hilfrid entices.

Hildgar pulls the iron from the fire. Shifts and twists around. With a sudden, horrifying clarity Thorin realizes what he aims for now: his hair.

The greatest offense for any dwarf.

Of course these men will know.

“Stop it!” Bilbo screeches and the iron is so close Thorin can feel the heat at the back of his neck. His hair starts curling already, blackening. “Stop!”

“Will you tell me the secret?” Hilfrid inquires.

Bilbo gasps for air, struggling to regain his composure. Thorin is horrified to discover the glint of tears on Bilbo’s face.

“Yes,” Bilbo sobs, and Thorin’s blood runs cold abruptly. He can’t give away their identities –

“I’ll tell you the secret,” Bilbo chokes out.

Thorin’s mind goes blank. His feet throb with a dull ache and he knows that something is terribly wrong with the back of his calves, but all he can feel in this moment is utter bewilderment. What secret is Bilbo talking about?

“Then tell us,” Hilfrid growls, “Now!”

Bilbo nods so fast his head hits the stone hard. “Yes, yes,” he stammers, “The secret is, well, the magic is … it’s…”

And Thorin recalls the trolls. But there is no Gandalf nearby, no help expected to come. Certainly the mountain will be in an uproar by now, but they didn’t exactly inform anybody where they were headed.

“You need to perform a ritual,” Bilbo fibs, “You need to melt down gold for it. Gold and rubies. About ten coins and two rubies, at least that was what I heard.”

Hilfrid nods. “Yes, and then?”

“Then, then,” Bilbo stutters, “You also need to mix in some tomato leaves. Once it’s all melted down, you need to speak a spell – and after that it’s all forged into a ring, but that may have been chance. I don’t know, you might be able to use other shapes. Please, that’s all I know of it. Let us go!”

Hilfrid shifts on his feet. “That spell,” he asks, “What language was it in?”

Bilbo blinks. “Khuzdul,” he replies.

Hildgar rises from Thorin’s back, and suddenly he can breathe again. Pins and needles travel up his arms, he shifts, but the pain in his feet is near indescribable. Hildgar walks past his brother, approaches Bilbo, the iron bar held leisurely at his side. “And you are sure of these ingredients?” he asks calmly.

The hairs on Thorin’s arms stand. Of course it’s a lie, but their captors haven’t even figured their identities, they shouldn’t be able to see through it, they shouldn’t –

“I watched it myself,” Bilbo confirms shakily, wide eyes staring fearfully at Hildgar.

The iron bar strikes him faster than he can react. Thorin gasps, when Bilbo grows limp in the chains, a new trail of blood running down his face.

“Why’d you do that?” Hilbert asks. Hilfrid, too, stares at his brother in shock.

“He was lying,” Hildgar declares, “You can’t melt rubies.”

Thorin feels like bashing his head against the ground. No, you can melt rubies. There’s no gemstone that the dwarves of Erebor have not been able to melt – how do these men think the Arkenstone was made to fit so perfectly above the throne? But men don’t know, and their forges cannot hope to reproduce the extreme heat the dwarves have lit in the depths of their mountains.

“Ah,” Hilfrid says, his face giving away his indecision, “I suspected.” He didn’t suspect anything, Thorin thinks, but as long as Hildgar and his iron bar are so close to Bilbo he’ll hold his tongue.

“What do we do now?” Hilbert asks. In spite of his bulk, he easily fades into the background.

Hildgar huffs. “We ask the dwarf, of course. Should’ve done it from the start. As fond as the King’s of his little hobbit, I doubt they’d trust outsiders with their sacred magic.”

And Thorin wants to scream.

“Alright,” Hilfrid agrees easily. Thorin hears the footsteps approach but does not look up. A boot catches him in the hip, and he stifles a pained moan behind his teeth – his side smarts, but his feet burn with a searing, enduring pain.

“Dwarf,” Hilfrid demands imperiously, “You heard us. Tell us the secret, and we’ll let you go.”

Thorin shifts, grinds his teeth. “Not a word,” he vows.

They move, but with his face stubbornly turned to the ground, Thorin does not see what they gesture. He’s a bit busy suppressing the pain in his feet, too. At least his calves remain numb, though they have suffered worse damage. Oin will have a field day.

If Dwalin doesn’t kill them first, Oin certainly will.

Though at this point fear has begun to settle in Thorin’s chest. Amateurs their captors may be, but the damage they have dealt is real, and if he isn’t careful the night could yet find a terrible ending. They need to get out – they can’t wait for a rescue mission.

And who knows if their captors won’t simply kill them in a fit of panic. Neither Hilfrid nor Hilbert seem much given to outright murder, but Thorin wouldn’t trust it past Hildgar.

He swallows and moves his arms. Chained behind his back, they’ve only slowly started waking since Hildgar removed himself. The chain creaks, and Thorin can feel the rust rubbing onto his skin. He puts pressure onto it, feeling the metal strain.

If he applies just a bit more force –

“Alright, we’ll try it this way then,” Hilfrid cheerfully announces, and Thorin is abruptly taken by large hands, turned over and pulled upright. His burnt calves scrape the floor, and he hisses as pain laces through him and sparks blind his vision.

Hilbert leans him against the wall, hovers awkwardly. Thorin blinks away the darkness, and his heart shudders when his vision clears. Bilbo hangs yet motionlessly, but he’s been turned around so his face is toward the wall. Behind him Hildgar steps into position, a barbed whip in his hands.

Thorin’s blood runs cold.

But before he can say anything, Hildgar has drawn back his hand and the whip cracks down. The barbs tear through the clothes on Bilbo’s back, and with a scream the hobbit jerks back to consciousness. Blood begins to run down his back.

“Stop this!” Thorin hears himself shout, “Stop it!”

But Hildgar swings the whip a second time, and another shrill scream tears through the room. Both, Bilbo’s coat and shirt now begin to hang, and the fabric grows darker. Bilbo struggles weakly in the chains, head turning right and left, until he catches sight of Thorin.

The King under the Mountain shakes his head, despair spreading like fire through his stomach. The sight of Bilbo’s blood makes him sick. “Stop it!” he shouts again.

Hilfrid gestures at Hildgar to stop, and the man lets the whip sink, visibly displeased. Hilfrid tilts his head. “Then speak, dwarf,” he insists, “But don’t lie. If you lie, your little friend here will suffer. And I doubt your King and his hobbit will like that very much.”

Thorin is ready to just shout at him that this very King sits right across him. But before he can even begin to speak, Bilbo interrupts.

“Don’t,” the hobbit gasps out, voice thick with pain, “Don’t tell them.”

There is no longer any use for stalling, Thorin thinks. If he lies, he risks the brothers taking out their wrath on Bilbo. If it was him, he’d not mind, but Bilbo’s not nearly as sturdy. Already his hands have begun purpling and he looks far too pale.

“Shut up,” Hilfrid says without looking toward Bilbo.

Thorin searches for words - he doesn’t expect to hear the crack of the whip again. Bilbo screams, and a piece of blood-stained fabric flutters to the ground. The skin of Bilbo’s back is exposed, and it’s covered in blood already.

He needs to do something. Fast.

Thorin looks at Hilfrid, searches his eyes, tries to convey his honesty. “There is no secret,” he insists, “We were lucky. That’s all. There is no magic spell protecting Erebor or anything.”

Hilfrid’s face twitches once more. “Stop lying!” he shouts.

“No!” Thorin cries, just before the whip comes down again. Blood splatters and Bilbo sobs quietly in the ensuing silence. A demented grin spreads over Hildgar’s face, despair and fear roll in Thorin’s stomach, and he needs to intervene.

Any stroke now could be the one too many. Bilbo’s never quite regained all his weight after settling in Erebor.

“Stop this!” Thorin hisses, “I’m telling the truth. Send a runner up to Erebor – I can give you a code that will get them straight to the head of the guard. They will confirm what I’m telling you!”

Hilfrid appears contemplative, but Hildgar impatient. For a moment Thorin contemplates imitating Bilbo and lying. But he’s never been this creative, nor ever been a convincing liar.

And when he sees Hildgar raise the whip again, he moves before he knows what he’s doing.

Hilfrid gasps as Thorin barrels past him. His feet cry out in pain, but all Thorin knows is Hildgar, and he slams into the man with all his weight, knocking them both off the ground. Bilbo shouts in confusion, Hilbert moves, and Hildgar’s head strikes the ground with a loud crack.

The man goes limp and Thorin rolls off him. His feet throb angrily and his calves are numb, but his blood boils, the surge of battle settling in. He tests the chains, and they give – When Hilbert dives for him, Thorin dodges at the very last moment.

Behind his back the chain rips with a satisfying crack, the rusty metal too weak against him. Thorin dives for the iron bar and throws it at Hilfrid who’s started for Bilbo. It catches Hilfrid in the head, and he flies forward, hitting the wall next to the hobbit before tumbling to the ground.

Amateurs, Thorin thinks with dark satisfaction. Only one to go.

Hilbert looks to his brothers, uncertain all of a sudden. He’s the largest, but not the brightest, and without instruction he seems to flounder.

“Look,” Thorin pants, eyeing the ground for possible weapons. He’ll not touch that whip, however, “Just let us leave and I won’t hurt you.”

Hilbert blinks. Then determination comes across him. “Never!” he swears and runs at Thorin again.

This time Thorin knows where to go. Two steps take him to Hildgar’s sack of torture instruments, and one blind grasp pulls out a long, small sword. It’s dull and of shoddy make, but certainly better than nothing, and Thorin feels the confidence flood back into him.

Hilbert notices. He hovers, and Thorin moves to an offensive position. “Run,” he offers, “I won’t chase you now.” But later he’ll bring down the wrath of the entire kingdom atop these three.

Hilbert decides differently. With a loud roar he throws himself toward Thorin again.

Thorin wants to dodge. But his ankle gives.

He barely manages to move his weight to the side, but doesn’t get his leg away in time. Hilbert’s weight catches on it. Pain like fire races through Thorin. He howls, falls to his knees. Behind him Hilbert crashes to the ground with a loud thud, and Thorin just has the wherewithal, to pull himself up. Cold sweat beads his entire body; he forces his vision to clear.

The pain is terrible, mind-numbing, but Hilbert is stunned for now, and he needs to leave.

Two cumbersome steps take him to Bilbo. The hobbit watches his approach wide-eyes. Tears have shapes clean tracks through the blood covering his too-pale face, and Thorin longs to wrap him in his own coat and never let go.

“Thorin,” Bilbo mumbles, weakly. He’s lost too much blood, Thorin thinks, he needs to get them to help, fast.

Even though his entire body is a mass of aches, Thorin reaches up and frees Bilbo from the hook. The hobbit sighs in relief, but his hands are blue, and Thorin frowns.

“That’ll hurt,” he mutters, warning Bilbo of the pain to come.

Bilbo nods, but curls up against Thorin’s chest, closing his eyes.

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, heart breaking, but his feet are on fire, “I can’t –”

Bilbo’s eyes shoot open, and he hastens to get his feet underneath himself. Thorin just catches him when his knees give out.

“Easy there,” he warns, “Lean on me for now.” He wishes he could carry him. Those injuries- Bilbo’s likely to pass out soon.

But Bilbo just grinds his teeth and nods. “And you on me,” he tells Thorin, and together they limp toward the door, not sparing another look for the downed man.

They should hurry, Thorin thinks. It’s likely any of the three will wake and come after them. And while he has a weapon now, the pain in his feet is progressively getting worse. Bilbo won’t stay upright long, either. So he forces them forward, step by step. Through the shabby corridor behind the door and then up a staircase that has Thorin wanting to give up and leaves him bathed in cold sweat.

Bilbo leans ever more heavily against him, silent but for small gasps whenever the clothes shift against his wounds. They must make a sorry picture, and he doubts they’ll have enough strength to go far. This place lies outside of Dale’s walls, not by much, but every bit of distance will be torture.

They could turn toward the mountain, Thorin thinks when they have reached the top of the staircase and follow a corridor toward another door. The light is terribly dim, only the moonlight that floods in through the windows, but they manage.

Erebor would certain guarantee this dealt with quietly and without a hassle. Bilbo will be glad to heal in his own space. And Thorin, too.

But Dale is closer. Bard will certainly help them, Thorin knows that, but he wishes he could take them to Erebor first. Bilbo makes a strange noise in the back of his throat, drawing Thorin from his contemplations.

“There’s somebody outside,” the hobbit hisses.

Thorin freezes. Are there more? His heart sinks. Do they have to fight their way through again? His body throbs with pain and fatigue, but he tightens his grip against the sword.

“Don’t worry,” he tells Bilbo, making sure to sound certain even if he doesn’t feel it, “We’ll –”

A loud knock on the door interrupts him. “Open up,” a familiar voice calls out, “By the order of King Bard, open this door!”

“Dwalin,” Bilbo breathes, shoulders slumping with relief. Thorin feels light-headed, and stumbles, pulling them the last steps toward the door. He fumbles with the bar, not trusting his voice, though Bilbo calls back.

“We’re here, Dwalin!” His voice is hoarse, testament to the hurt he endured and a part of Thorin longs to return downstairs and make Hildgar pay.

But now the door opens, and Dwalin, flanked by four other guards shines a lantern into their faces. “Bilbo?” he inquires, “Thorin?” His face twists oddly, and Thorin feels himself smiling with growing relief. “What are you doing here? Everybody’s out searching for you, the entire mountain’s in chaos. If you’ve been visiting people, you should have –”

Dwalin catches sight of the bruises and blood then, and abruptly closes his mouth. Bilbo sags against Thorin, and he holds him a little tighter.

“It wasn’t exactly a social call,” Bilbo mumbles, “Not voluntary either.”

Thorin feels himself smile involuntarily. Dwalin’s eyes widen as he musters them closely. “I can see that,” he growls, “What happened?”

His tone goes flat, and Thorin knows the same desire for revenge dances through Dwalin that echoes in his own veins. But he’s too tired now, too tired and sore, and Bilbo needs a healer.

“They’re downstairs,” he tells Dwalin shortly, “Three brothers. Captured us, but had no clue who we were.” It still leaves him in disbelief. “Have you brought a healer?”

Dwalin shakes his head. “No, but everybody’s prepared in Erebor. Though Bard’s informed, too, so we could go to Dale –”

Bilbo tugs at Thorin’s sleeve and turns exhausted eyes toward Dwalin. “Erebor,” he murmurs.

Dwalin nods, and while Thorin’s stomach clenches with worry; he knows the guards will have them back in Erebor in no time.

“Erebor it is.”

_tbc_


	2. What came after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath. (explicit scene ahoi)

Thorin’s memories of returning to Erebor are thankfully few and blurred. He thinks Dwalin likely carried him part of the way, and another guard took care of Bilbo. Once he’s back on his feet he’ll raise their pay – hopefully they’ll not spread rumors before that.

Something shifts next to him and Thorin reluctantly peels open his eyes. The room is bright, indicating morning has long since passed. A dull throb runs up his legs, but the pain feels dulled, subdued. In truth it feels a lot less painful then when he first woke after battle. At least this time his chest is intact. Not that Oin had much appreciated that.

Thorin quite clearly recalls Oin’s loud accusations. Foolish and reckless the healer had called them, and Thorin had been too tired to protest much. In fact, he’d been rather grateful when Oin had pushed his tea at him and promised sweet sleep.

The mattress moves again, making the covers shift uncomfortably against Thorin’s bandaged feet and legs. At least there’s no sharp spike of pain – only a dull throb that warns him to stay off his feet for a while longer.

The bed moves once more and with a grunt Thorin rolls over. Bilbo looks back at him, a deep frown on his face and the pillow askew beneath him, looking as if it had been victimized in a fight. The covers have not fared much better, and even the sheets are twisted and unruly.

Bilbo blinks, surprised at finding him awake. His skin is yet a shade to pale, and there is a frown creasing his brow.

“I hate sleeping on my stomach,” Bilbo groans and moves again, trying and failing to get comfortable. Thorin’s lips twitch, while Bilbo ineffectively boxes his pillow. The color of his hands is completely back to normal, and except of a ring of darkening bruises around his wrists no damage is visible. Another knot of tension in Thorin’s chest dissolves.

“How is your back?” Thorin mumbles, sleep making his voice rougher.

Bilbo grimaces. “As well as your legs, I suppose. Oin said to expect some soreness for a while. And that I can’t sleep on my back.”

Especially the last part seems to vex him, and Thorin has seen enough back injuries to know how simultaneously important and annoying this part of the recovery process is. “He knows what he’s doing,” Thorin comments.

Bilbo snorts, and gives up on getting comfortable. Instead he sits back on his haunches and the covers fall away. His nightshirt hangs askew, revealing white bandages covering his shoulders.

“What about your head?” Thorin inquires, recalling the fear he felt when Bilbo went limp.

“The cut’s healing just fine,” Bilbo says, pointing to his forehead. Thorin can see a thin red line there – nearly invisible already, “The other thing needed stitches.”

Thorin hisses in sympathy, though Bilbo shrugs. “I was out for it. Oin wasn’t happy, but he said I got away without a concussion, so I’m fine. What about you? How long do you have to stay off your feet?”

“I don’t know,” Thorin shrugs. Oin told him, but the answer is no longer among his recollections. As Oin will likely visit them again sometime during the day, he will ask then. In the meantime, he’ll enjoy this unexpected day off.

Hopefully the mountain will not dissolve into chaos during his unscheduled absence.

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. “Truly, or on purpose?”

Thorin feels his mouth twitch. “Truly.” He pushes himself up on his elbows, and shrugs off the covers. Of course, he’s dressed in a long nightshirt too, likely Oin’s doing, and his feet are wrapped in thick, white bandages.

“Dwalin hasn’t stopped by to kill us yet?” Thorin inquires drily.

Bilbo shifts. “No. Oin stopped by to check up on us while you were asleep, and Balin said to tell you everything’s been taken care of.”

“I wonder what story they’ve come up with,” Thorin contemplates. The rumor mills likely will have a field day. King and not-official consort out at the same time – coupled with last night’s hubbub, the stories to result will likely be outlandish.

Bilbo puts his head in his hands. “Anything but the truth, I hope.”

Thorin nods in agreement. They’ll never live it down – to have been taken captive by a bunch of amateurs who even failed to recognize them. At least the rumor mill is unlikely to guess that.

“Maybe I should commission a few commemorative paintings to be put up in Dale,” Thorin suggests.

“So the next time something happens they’ll at least know who we are?” Bilbo asks. Thorin shrugs and nods.

“I doubt they’ll let us sneak out again anyway,” Bilbo says, and Thorin can only agree. Dwalin is unlikely to allow them out of his sight.

Bilbo moves closer, shifting until he sits next to Thorin’s legs. “We’ll have to find another enjoyable activity to pass the time then,” he suggests with a wink. “I’ll miss the walks, I admit, but with winter setting in, well.”

“I suppose you have already though of an alternative?” Thorin inquires, his throat running dry and heat pooling in his groin. Under the thin nightshirt, his rising interest is more than obvious.

Bilbo smirks at him. “Oh, we could take up knitting, I guess,” he comments airily and trails one hand down Thorin’s chest toward his groin. “Or maybe woodworking.”

His fingers find the hem of Thorin’s nightshirt and push it back. Excitement rushes through Thorin, and if he ever felt sleepy, it’s all but forgotten. His member rises fully, and a throb travels through him that has nothing to do with pain and everything with arousal.

Bilbo palms his erection through his smallclothes and Thorin stifles a gasp. Sparks dance down his spine, his nerves sing with pleasure. He’s already far too close to the brink when Bilbo peels back the clothes and exposes Thorin’s throbbing member to the cool air of their rooms.

A part in the back of his mind wonders if this is a good idea, since they’re both still recovering and fairly well dosed with whatever concoction Oin deemed appropriate. But then Bilbo’s hand finds his balls and thought flees Thorin’s mind.

Thorin lets his head fall back and his mouth drop open. Every little touch, every stir of the air goes straight to his brain. His entire body sings with little fireworks, and Bilbo doesn’t hesitate to lean down and take him in his mouth.

Rough, warm lips touch the sensitive skin and slide along it, swallowing down more and more until all Thorin knows is tight heat. It’s paradise and more, and Thorin clutches at the bedsheets like a man drowning. He gasps, moans, when Bilbo sucks. A clever tongue traces the thick veins on the underside of his member, and a harsh shudder races through Thorin. His nerve endings burn, his entire body throbs with dire need.

Bilbo chuckles in his throat before swallowing him down even further, and Thorin’s back arches of the mattress. He barely stops himself from reaching out, trying to draw his beloved little hobbit closer, because whatever pains he felt have completely vanished and there’s only him and Bilbo and the heat between them.

The heat rises higher and higher, until Bilbo gives his balls a small squeeze and Thorin’s mind goes white.

When his vision clears again, he’s still shuddering and sweat cools on his brow. Bilbo has sat back and wipes thoughtfully at the corner of his mouth. His knees are pudding, but Thorin forces his over-stimulated body to shift. Reaches for Bilbo with a shaky hand.

“Let me,” he mumbles, voice hoarse in the aftermath of orgasm. His unsteady hand searches the hem of Bilbo’s nightshirt, wanting to touch the soft skin beneath. Already his body starts to heat up again, or maybe the flames never went out in first place.

Bilbo smiles at him, a little bashful, and shakes his head. “Thanks Thorin, but it’s, uh, not necessary?”

Thorin blinks and forces his fogged mind to clear. “Not – don’t you?”

Bilbo shrugs and shifts backward. “Ah, I wouldn’t mind, but it seems my body isn’t quite up to it yet.” He gestures down at his lap where the familiar tenting that Thorin has caused more than once is notably absent.

“Oh,” Thorin says, and his face falls. “Did you –” Was this too much? Should he have refused Bilbo? He dislikes not reciprocating; it always makes things feel one-sided.

“No, no,” Bilbo interrupts that train of thought, “I quite enjoy giving you a hand. Or a mouth.” His lips quirk and he shakes his head. “You know that, Thorin. Make it up to me another time – I certainly won’t complain. Don’t worry about that now.”

Bilbo leans forward then and stretches himself over Thorin’s chest until he can press a kiss to Thorin’s lips. While still addled, Thorin automatically responds. Opens his mouth and presses forward, his hands reaching up to grasp Bilbo by the shoulders, though he reminds himself to be careful. When his hold seems to cause no pain, he tugs Bilbo down until the hobbit comes off balance and collapses against his chest.

Through the thin fabric of their shirts, Bilbo must feel Thorin’s heart racing. He can sense the heat surrounding Bilbo, can even feel the outline of the bandages wrapped around the hobbit’s chest. And a strange sort of guilt surges through him – he wishes he could have protected him better, wishes he could wrap his arms around Bilbo now.

Instead, he keeps a firm grip on Bilbo’s upper arms, while Bilbo’s hands find their way into his hair. Bilbo chuckles, ignorant of Thorin’s thoughts, and makes no move to get up. Instead his eyes seek out Thorin’s. “But thank you, anyway,” he says quietly, “Yesterday. If you hadn’t interfered, I don’t think I –”

Thorin’s heart clenches. “I couldn’t protect you,” he bursts out.

Bilbo blinks, then he tugs on Thorin’s hair. “I couldn’t protect you. And really, you were the one to get us out, so I think you got that job done quite well after all. If you hadn’t been there, I’d be still stuck with them.”

He gives a shudder that is half-performed, half-real. The idea of Bilbo still at the mercy of those three makes Thorin’s stomach twist.

“You’d have come up with a plan,” Thorin assures him, gently reaching out to pet Bilbo’s hair. Most of the blood has been washed out, and he’s careful to stay clear of the injury. The touch soothes the hobbit and Bilbo relaxes against Thorin’s chest. “Maybe,” he mumbles.

“You’ve always been the clever one,” Thorin continues, “You made up that magic ritual. I wouldn’t have thought of that.” Thorin has always learned to rely on his skill and strength in battle.

Bilbo shrugs, eyes beginning to droop. “I got the ruby thing wrong, though.”

“Actually not,” Thorin corrects him, “They wouldn’t know it, because their forges don’t get that hot, but you can melt practically anything.”

“Oh,” Bilbo mumbles, “Didn’t know…”

“No,” Thorin confirms, trailing a hand through the tawny curls and enjoying their closeness, “But you had a good idea. I’d have been much worse off if you hadn’t stalled them.”

Looking back he almost wishes they wouldn’t have switched their strategy. Remembering Bilbo’s motionless body hanging from the chains still sends a shudder down his spine.

“Still…” Bilbo protests sleepily, “Your feet…”

“Will heal. Oin said there’s no nerve damage and with his special ointment even the scars should be few,” Thorin says, “Sleep a bit. You seem tired.”

“That pillow,” Bilbo complains faintly, “Just wasn’t comfortable. This, however…” His voice trails off, and Thorin feels the last bit of tension evaporate. Bilbo’s breathing evens out. Thorin stifles a laugh simply because the movement is likely to disturb Bilbo.

But he’s quite glad they’re both back here and in one piece, if a little worse for wear. Amateurs their captors may have been, things could have easily gone very wrong. Though this time luck was on their side.

And with this thought Thorin allows his own eyes to close.

***

He doesn’t quite know how long he sleeps, but Bilbo sleeps longer. The hobbit misses Dwalin stomping in and holding his tongue just because he catches sight of Bilbo pillowed on Thorin’s chest. What follows is likely the angriest tirade ever delivered in sign language, and Thorin is certain Bifur would be deeply impressed at both the speed and creativity which Dwalin applies to communicating his opinion.

He’d like to protest Dwalin’s assertion that he and Bilbo are even dumber than their captors, but his movements are limited. And Dwalin doesn’t let the petulant expression on Thorin’s face deter him.

Balin arrives with the same message a little later, though his gestures are far more diplomatic.

Kili’s signs translate to “your beard is dumb and I hope you find coal”. Fili’s gestures carry no meaning at all unless his nephew is imitating birds. Ori’s arrival thankfully puts a stop to the guessing games. Just before he shuffles Fili and Kili out of the room, Ori translates: “They say you are very dumb, but are glad to have your dumb butts back in the mountain.”

Then he hesitates for a moment. “I think, though, your captors far outrank you in that regard.”

Thorin realizes that not only have the three brothers been apprehended, they must have also been asked for their statements. Which means the tale of how the King under the Mountain and his not-official consort were not recognized by a bunch of novice highwaymen is likely already making the round.

And he’d hoped to avoid that tale ever becoming public.

***

Oin keeps Thorin and Bilbo confined to bed for three days. They make good use of their time, knowing that once they appear in public again, things will be turbulent for a while. And indeed, Thorin has to fight of a number of theatrically outraged courtiers, a good number of rather impertinent inquiries and deal with Oin breathing down his neck.

But when Oin is not stalking Thorin and warning him to “air out his feet”, he’s tracking down Bilbo who so far has been victim of at least seven speeches of “leaving the mountain if far too dangerous for you” courtesy of a number of dwarves. Bilbo sighs and smiles and nods and takes the first opportunity to visit Dale he gets.

Bard is a very protective and very apologetic host, though he too delivers a well-worded criticism of irresponsible behavior. Thorin very much doubts it’d have caused an outright war even if him and Bilbo had gotten themselves killed, but he knows that from now on the city guards will check every dwarf they see twice.

Which results in the exposition of a smuggling ring, and a few other shady deals, so it’s not the worst consequence that could be.

Still, Thorin is glad when the day of the trial comes and passes. Balin had pulled all possible strings to get the smallest courtroom available, but Bard has to be there with an entourage and that means a good number of men and dwarves hear the tale.

From then on it doesn’t even take a week for the tale to be turned into a song. Thorin banishes it per edict, but finds himself facing a remorseless civil resistance lead by his own kin. Even Bilbo admits the tune is rather catchy.

Thorin admits defeat. But not to Bilbo – he can always stop the hobbit’s singing with a kiss.

  _fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to let me know what you though - here or on [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> The second chapter and its little epilogue shall follow soon. XD


End file.
